


shake the glitter off your clothes now

by YourPalYourBuddy



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Las Vegas Wedding, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, Snapshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-28 19:19:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18762802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourPalYourBuddy/pseuds/YourPalYourBuddy
Summary: It’s an unfamiliar email address. The subject line reads,Congratulations! Your virtual marria….The app cuts off the full line.Ransom stares at it. Then he taps it open, scanning it frantically. This is — this has to be a joke, there’s no way — Shitty or someone, they must have pranked them, that’s all it is.At the very end of the email it says this:Adam Birkholtz & Justin Oluransi, wedded this day on March 10th, 2015.______________Holsom + drunk Vegas wedding, Ransom's POV. Set over the course of ~24 hours.





	shake the glitter off your clothes now

________________________

 

Ransom’s mom has a thing about mornings. Mornings set the tone for your entire day, she’d say, explaining why it’s important to go to bed early and wake up for breakfast. She’d usually say this if he was in a Call of Duty wormhole. Not directly pointedly, not directly just a statement either. An observation he can pick up whenever he wants. Now more than later, though, especially when there’s school to get to in the morning.

Ransom applies this theory to this morning and before he even opens his eyes he knows his day is fucked.

There’s some sticky stain clotting his arm hair and he’s got sand like you wouldn’t _believe_ in his shorts and his shorts are — missing at least four inches of material, if not more, and when he does open his eyes his vision is strangely cut across with white stripes. He blinks. The stripes do not go away.

He closes his eyes again. Forces a deep breath he doesn’t believe enough for it to be soothing. His head hurts like hell.

“Mlemgph,” someone mumbles next to him. He feels the bedsprings shift and settle as the someone shifts and settles, their arm flopping over Ransom’s waist.

He’s in bed with someone! Fantastic. That’s great. He can’t even remember how this stranger got into his bed. Ransom searches his memories, eyes now tightly squeezed shut, and can’t go any farther back than Holster saying _best spring break yet, fuck yeah_ and downing a shot of straight vodka.

_Holster._

Ransom cracks an eyelid, peering through the stripes again. The person next to him has blond hair and blue eyes and a bewildered look on his face like when he found out about 30Rock ending. He’s also wearing a pair of stupid looking shutter shades.

It strikes him that he’s also probably wearing a pair of stupid looking shutter shades. He gingerly takes them off. The stripes disappear from his vision.

Holster looks like he got washed up on the beach and then flash frozen and defrosted at least seven times. Ransom knows he probably doesn’t look any better.

“The fuck did we do last night,” Ransom mumbles. There’s a very faint amount of sunlight coming through the cheap hotel curtains. It feels like being stabbed in the face with hundreds of tiny needles.

Holster mutters, “No fucking idea,” and Ransom laughs. Then he winces. Laughing makes his head hurt so much worse.

He rolls onto his back, groaning, and presses his hands to his eyes in an attempt to relieve the pressure. “I feel like I just faced off against Harvard’s entire defensive line.” He squints at his hands. Something tiny glints and gleams back at him. “Do I have glitter on my face?”

“Like, a shit ton,” Holster says, reaching out like he’s going to brush some off and hesitating, checking his phone instead. Ransom watches him tap through Instagram and Snapchat, probably searching their friends’ accounts for hints about _what the fuck_ they did last night, but it just looks like pictures and videos from clubs, and Ransom remembers all of that.

He has a vague memory of dancing up on Holster, Holster’s mouth needy and hot at his neck, and he would be red as hell if he wasn’t Nigerian. He spares a second to thank his melanin. It was probably just a hangover dream anyway.

Ransom fumbles for his own phone after Holster’s breathing evens out again, dozing off. He thinks they’d been saying something last night about the Aces game with Bitty, Jack, Shits, and Lardo, and one of them really should be awake to see if their plans are still on. They’ve only one more day before flying back. He doesn’t want to miss a thing.

He detours to check his email first. His organic chem teacher was supposed to email him about an assignment, like, a week ago, and she still hadn’t when they landed yesterday afternoon. There’s still no email from her. He’s about to close out of the app when his phone dings cheerfully, a sound too loud for his current hangover, and he scowls at it.

It’s an unfamiliar email address. The subject line reads, **Congratulations! Your virtual marria….** The app cuts off the full line.

Ransom stares at it. Then he taps it open, scanning it frantically. This is — this has to be a joke, there’s no way — Shitty or someone, they must have pranked them, that’s all it is.

At the very end of the email it says this: _Adam Birkholtz & Justin Oluransi, wedded this day on March 10th, 2015. _

____________

 

“No fuckin’ way,” Holster says. He glances at Ransom apologetically, but he holds tight to Rans’ phone. “I don’t mean, like. You know what I mean. You’re way out of my league and I know that, but like. No _fuckin’_ way.”

Ransom almost contests the _out of my league_ thing — sometimes it’s like Holster’s never looked at himself in a mirror before — but he’s way, way too concerned about how pale Holster is. He still has a death grip on Ransom’s phone.

“We can figure this out,” Ransom says. Hopefully Holster doesn’t realize how fast his own heart is beating; they can’t really afford for both of them freaking out right now. “It’ll be okay, this is just like — advanced best friend stuff, if you think about it.”

Holster makes a face at him. “Best friends don’t usually get shitass drunk and marry each other in Vegas, Rans.”

There’s something in his tone Ransom doesn’t know how to process. Some slight strain of unhappiness on _best friends._

He says, “You don’t know that, probably happens more than you’d think.”

They need a plan and to get out of this room, maybe a shower. There’s so much glitter in here it’s like someone had sex in a craft store. At least they woke up wearing clothes. Ransom doesn’t want to think about how different things would be otherwise, how much a little, sneaky part of him almost wishes they hadn’t been. He would’ve liked to remember it, though.

He shouldn’t think like that now. Ransom yawns and stretches and has just started to say “I’m gonna shower” when Holster lunges across the bed, eyes focused on — Ransom’s gonna have a heart attack, he’s going to, from Holster moving that fast and so intent on Ransom’s collarbone. He falls flat on his back.

“What the fu—”

Holster shushes him, fingers scrambling at the neckline of Ransom’s shirt. Ransom’s pulse is a wreck; he furiously ignores the proximity, the fact that Holster basically just jumped him, how he can feel his breath on his skin. Holster frames an area with his hands and it’s such a lovely amount of pressure that Ransom has to concentrate to stop from getting hard. He focuses on settling his breathing and heartbeat.

“This is a _massive_ hickey, bro,” Holster says, his words sounding strangled. They hit Ransom like a punch. “Like. Gigantic. I’d be impressed if it didn’t look painful as hell.”

Ransom sits up to look for himself and just crashes back onto the bed. He covers his face with his hands.

It’s not the worst one he’s had. It spans almost his entire collarbone, suggesting — he doesn’t want to think about that, but. Someone was definitely angling _somewhere,_ with intent; it looks like three or four hickeys smudged red and purple together. The tail end of it peeks out of his shirt, but it doesn’t go up his neck. He spares a second to wonder if he’d rather it did.

He feels Holster pokes one tentatively. “Does that hurt?”

“Not too bad,” Ransom gets out. He kind of wants Holster to do it again. “I don’t remember that happening.”

“That good, huh?” Holster says. There’s a smirk in his voice, but Ransom hears the nerves behind it.

For a moment Ransom thinks he’s about to ghost his lips over the mark.

The fact of the matter is this: Ransom has a giant-ass hickey, they woke up together wearing tiny-ass shorts, and Ransom’s phone says they’re real-ass married. There’s a very real possibility Holster’s mouth was on his shoulder sometime in the last twelve hours. And there’s a much, much realer part of Ransom that wants his mouth there again.

They don’t really say anything as Ransom gets ready to shower. There’s a brief moment, after Holster takes his shirt off, that they pause and check him over for any hickeys, but all they find are some scratches on his back that could mean anything aside from the fact that Holster’s into that. Holster hesitantly says something about maybe tripping into a bush and Ransom nods. It’s a lie and he’s pretty sure they both know it, but. It’s the easier explanation.

In the bathroom he finds two rings in the tiny pockets of his shorts. He sets them on the counter and lets the water ease him back into himself.

____________

 

They don’t talk about the hickey.

They get dressed and complain about their hangovers and the weird tan lines they have from the booty shorts and how much Holster regrets wearing socks with his slides because now he has a crisp white line on his calves, isn’t it ridiculous, and Ransom says something about how there’s still so much glitter on his face. Holster says it makes him as pretty as a disco ball, and there’s a minute where Ransom flushes while Holster tries to explain what he means, and it doesn’t make sense and they don’t talk about the hickey.

Lardo texts sporadically, mostly talking about _About damn time you did something about it_ and _Seriously brahs wtf did you go last night_ and _You got 5 min before we’re busting down your door where are you._ Ransom ruefully watches them come in as he sinks back into the bed.

“We should at least tell her we’re alive,” he says. He doesn’t say _that we got married,_ but it’s a close call. They’ll have to at least tell Shitty. Maybe he can lawyer something for them.

Holster hums and types something into his phone, not looking up. This is — this is somewhat worrisome. Usually they at least look up now and then as they’re texting to show that they aren’t purposefully ignoring each other, but Holster’s concentrating so hard on his phone that Ransom feels like a third wheel. Which objectively makes no sense seeing as how they’re actually married, and yet.

They’re married. Now that the shock has eased some, it’s a much easier problem to breathe around. He and Holster accidentally got married. If it was gonna be anyone it’d be them, probably, they’re practically married anyway. He’d just figured it would happen after he finally told Holster what he feels when Holster takes his shirt off in the locker room and leans all over him after practice.

“They’re talking about food before the game,” Holster says, still frowning at his phone. Ransom tries not to be hurt by this. It doesn’t work as well as it should. “D’you wanna go?”

Ransom clears his throat awkwardly. “We should probably like … talk about this first.”

Holster nods abruptly, setting his phone down on his bedside table. It goes directly in a pile of glitter. Ransom’s unsure if he did it on purpose.

“You’re right,” Holster says. He looks at Ransom now and it’s like the first breath of air after being underwater. He sits on the bed facing him, hands palm up on his knees like he’s asking Ransom to reach out and hold them, and the openness in his face is so much. Ransom opens his mouth to say — something, probably a bad idea — when Holster says, “How do you wanna do this?”

It’s for the best. He tells himself this until he can almost believe it. “I don’t want to tell them unless we have to. Best case scenario they help us figure this out, but—”

“Worse case scenario we get like, billions of dollars in fines,” Holster finishes. He tugs on the hem of Ransom’s shorts. “Can’t have that.”

“No,” Ransom says. His voice is suddenly hoarse; he clears his throat. “Shitty if anyone, yeah?”

Holster tugs some more. This time his fingertips graze skin. Ransom’s knee jerks, ticklish at the contact, and Holster pulls back. There’s an emptiness left behind that shouldn’t feel as prevalent as it does.

“Yeah.” Holster picks at his nails the way he does when he’s antsy from stress or confusion or trying to puzzle something out. Ransom thinks it’s probably all three right now. “Only thing is that I may have, um. Already told Lardo.”

“Oh,” Ransom says, and Holster’s phone starts playing “I Gotta Feeling” at full blast. They both stare at it. “That’s probably her calling, then.”

Holster says, “Yeah,” and picks up the phone.

____________

 

So “let’s not tell anyone unless we have to” is a total bust.

Lardo, Shitty, Jack, and Bitty stare at them over jalapeño poppers and mozzarella sticks as Ransom tries to explain that they can’t really explain what happened, that he woke up to an email earlier saying they’d gotten married at The Little Vegas Chapel the night before. He doesn’t mention the hickey or the scratches on Holster’s back or the fact that they must have planned it somewhat, because he’d had rings in his pocket.

As he talks, Shitty and Holster seem to have an unspoken conversation consisting of wide eyes and grimaces. He doesn’t know what to make of that.

“So when you left the club and said you were going back to the hotel,” Lardo says slowly, pointing a mozzarella stick at him, “you got married instead?”

Ransom shrugs helplessly. “So it seems.”

“Were there any witnesses? Is there an address for the chapel?”

“I didn’t see a witness line,” Ransom says. He pulls the email up on his phone and passes it to her; Jack leans in, and she tilts it so they can both read it.

Lardo and Bitty fill them in on what happened last night. How all of them had gotten at least a little sloppy, how the club they’d been at had been _so much fun_ and they should definitely go back after the game, and that everyone was surprised but Jack actually won a dance off sometime around midnight. Bitty pulls up a video of it on his phone when Ransom makes a face in disbelief. Jack preens a little at that.

“You left around one,” Jack says. “Took a taxi. We thought you guys were sobering up, you seemed at least a little bit more capable than earlier. We’d been doing water in between drinks.”

Shitty says, “Oh captain our fucking captain,” and Jack shrugs modestly.

Next to Ransom, Holster makes an expansive gesture and accidentally hits him on the shoulder. Holster freezes, whispering, “Sorry,” and Ransom gives him a tight smile.

Bitty comments on it immediately. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Holster goes redder than Ransom thought possible. His freckles all but disappear, making his sunburn even more pronounced, and it’s annoying Ransom thinks this is cute too. The silence stretches on so long that Shitty and Jack share _looks_ while Lardo stares at them like a cat watching a particularly struggling pair of birds.

She looks kind of sad for them. He doesn’t want to read into that either.

“Guys,” Lardo says. She brandishes the mozzarella stick again, this time splashing marinara sauce on the back of Bitty’s hand. He wipes it off without looking. “Rans, do you — is that a—”

“It’s a hickey,” Ransom blurts. Lardo’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t look surprised. None of them do.

Holster shifts in his seat, his arm brushing against Ransom’s. Slowly, carefully, Ransom adjusts his hand — this is just, he tells himself firmly, just a friend thing, this is something they always do, this is not anything special or significant.

Ransom slides his hand into Holster’s, and despite the familiarity of their hands together, there’s still a thrill when Holster twines their fingers together.

He thinks maybe that thrill has been there awhile now. This isn’t the time, though, so he lets it be.

____________

 

They spend the rest of the afternoon googling “how to undo a drunk Vegas wedding” and steadily working through all of the appetizers the restaurant has to offer. Somewhere around their fifth roadblock Shitty pulls out his laptop, opens Pinterest, and starts an annulment inspo board. Their group concentration unravels from there. Lardo leans against him, dictating which posts he should add to it; she argues passionately for a picture of Rick Astley, and Shitty adds it with a very serious expression. Jack left the table to call his dad a few minutes after — apparently the Penguins had a streak of Vegas weddings in the late 80s — and Bitty’s currently debating whether to ask Twitter their advice.

“The problem is, my MooMaw follows me,” Bitty muses. He pops a jalapeño in his mouth. “Don’t want her to think I got hitched without telling them.”

Oh. Ransom hadn’t even thought about his parents; he’s pretty sure they have an idea of how he feels about Holster, but it’s one thing to know that and then to hear they’d eloped, accidentally or not. A creeping shiver of stress works its way up his back.

“Probably a good idea,” Holster says. He says it lightly, but there’s an underlying note of concern in his words. Ransom focuses on their hands under the table to avoid his gaze. Holster squeezes his hand.

It’s starting to hit him now. The restaurant has gotten busy with other tourists and spring breakers and so many rattling plates and cups and _laughter_ and it’s getting to be too much. The noise rebounds in his head and he hunches over, instinctively trying to hide from it all.

Holster’s voice comes from far away. “Bro, you okay?”

Gentle pressure on his back; Holster’s moved one of his hands to the space between Ransom’s shoulder blades, is rubbing small circles against his shirt. A quick glance around the table shows a slew of concerned faces. Ransom closes his eyes.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Holster says. He must be whispering in his ear now — his words tickle against his skin. “For better or for worse, right? Advanced best friend stuff.”

Ransom chokes on a laugh at that, sitting up. Holster keeps his hand on his back. “Please don’t tell me that’s your best line.”

He says it without thinking. Holster looks suddenly shy, ducking his head; his eyelashes dust his cheeks so beautifully in the sunlight that Ransom almost says something. The air between feels charged, swollen in a golden moment that feels almost tangible. Like Ransom could take it out of the air and pop it in his mouth.

“Think we both know I have better ones,” Holster says, and his words sound carefully weighted. Like he heard the opening Ransom just gave him.

He opens his mouth — to say what, he has no idea — when Lardo’s phone buzzes off the table and the moment bursts. Holster shakes his head like he has water in his ears. Ransom feels a similar sort of way.

Lardo resurfaces, typing something as she does, and Bitty’s phone immediately chirps with a text. Ransom watches him raise his eyebrows at her significantly.

“What,” Ransom asks. The two of them ignore him in favor of their phones. He nudges Bitty’s foot with his shoe. “Are you talking about us?”

Bitty says, “Why on earth would you think that,” and Ransom narrows his eyes.

“Also, shoe check,” Shitty says. He and Lardo laugh at Holster’s outraged expression.

“Worst wedding gift,” Holster says, shaking his head, and heads off to the bathroom to wipe off the ketchup.

Ransom knows the others are staring while he watches Holster go. He takes a deep breath before turning back to face them. “What?”

They have a tense stare-off for a few heartbeats. He uses it to mentally prepare himself; they’re gonna chirp him, probably relentlessly, maybe slap a fine on the table. He’s just calculated the probable cost — somewhere around $35 USD — and taken a sip of water when Bitty speaks.

“Rans, are you — are you playing with him?”

This is so not what he expected that he chokes on his drink. “Sorry, _what?”_

Bitty shares a look with Lardo as if to say _your turn._ Lardo sighs. “Look, it’s just — he likes you, it’s kind of a dick punch if you’re using this to mess with him.”

“Hold on,” Ransom says. His head feels like someone’s kicking it and hitting it with a thermos. “Holster likes me?”

Shitty goes pale. “Did you — not know or something, because. Brah. It’s so obvious, what did you think all the ‘just wait I’m gonna wheel you so good’ was about just now?”

“And _don’t_ say ‘advanced best friend stuff’ or Lord above I’ll throw this at you,” Bitty says, wiggling a jalapeño popper threateningly.

“No, but—” Ransom struggles to find good words and eventually gives up. “See, like. I have a thing for _him,_ I never thought — what’d you mean, then,” he says to Lardo, suddenly remembering. “In your text. What’d you mean, about time I finally acted on it?”

“It was more like, ‘oh, Ransom finally realized Holster likes him and that they like each other, good on him for doing something about it,’” Lardo says. “You were like, dancing up on him, Rans. I think we all thought you guys had finally figured it out.”

That hazy memory of them at the club was real, then. It solidifies in his mind’s eye, becoming real and more possible.

“Do you know what we said?” he whispers. He clears his throat. “Before all of that. Do you know how we got there?”

They look at each other. In the silence after his question he hears the answer.

“Rans,” Shitty says softly, but Ransom shakes his head. He doesn’t want to hear them say he’s back at the start.

Somewhere in the back a door opens and closes.

“It’s okay,” he says as Holster makes his way toward them. “It happened once, it could happen again. Right?”

“I thought it was gonna happen five minutes ago, personally,” Bitty says. Lardo hums in agreement. “We can figure this out.”

“Figure what out?” Holster asks brightly from behind Ransom. He’s standing so close Ransom can almost feel his heartbeat against his back.

Shitty says, “Your bff situation,” and Bitty throws the jalapeño popper at him. “Bits, what the hell? I didn’t say it!”

“It was close enough.”

____________

 

In the taxi, Jack fills them in on his conversation with his dad. It’s a tight squeeze; Ransom is sitting almost on top of both Holster and Lardo, and every time they turn Holster instinctively steadies him with a hand on his waist. Eventually he gives up on moving his hand. Ransom has a hard time breathing.

“Well, first he thought _I’d_ gotten married and was trying not to panic on me,” Jack says as they round a corner. Ransom notices him glance at Bitty while he says it. “And then he got my mom on a group call, and then _she_ was trying not to panic on me. So we had to get through that first, which is why it took so long. But after they understood it was really about some friends of mine they were really helpful.”

Jack goes on to explain grounds for annulments and how, in this case, they’d argue that they were mentally incompetent or unable to understand what they were consenting to due to being intoxicated. Apparently it shouldn’t take too long to process, given that they’re both willing to sign the papers.

“Sounds like just a few minutes,” Jack says. “I think thirty minutes, give or take.”

Shitty fist pumps. “Then we can celly with the Aces and Sharks game.”

“This may be dickish to say, considering we like. Kind of know Parse,” Holster says. He hooks his chin on Ransom’s non-hickey shoulder. Ransom swallows reflexively. “But I hope the Aces lose.”

“Me fucking too,” Bitty mutters vehemently. He and Jack share a look. Ransom watches as Bitty’s cheek go just so barely pink.

Looks like he isn’t the most oblivious one, then.

Then Holster turns his head to say something to Lardo about stadium food and his lips brush Ransom’s neck and Ransom checks out of the rest of the conversation.

____________

 

They sign the papers an hour before puck drop. It’s surprisingly easy; all it takes is a lot of initialling, some signing, and a fax machine to send the papers off to another office. The lawyer running the office talks with Shitty about Harvard law school while Ransom and Holster slide their sheets into an envelope, and she gives all three of them her card in case they have further questions or something strange happens with the request.

“It should clear within the week,” she tells them while shaking their hands. “We’ll send you an email to confirm.”

The game goes by in a blur. He remembers some of it — a gorgeous goal by the Aces in the first 10 seconds of the first period, the Sharks rallying for another three in the third, penalties raining down on both sides — but he spends most of it looking at Holster. Holster sunburnt from the tank tops he’d worn out the first few days they’ve been here. How there’s still, even now, specks of glitter mingling with the freckles on his nose and cheeks and jaw. How this Holster is the same as the one he’s known for three years, how apparently he missed his hints and clues this whole time until now.

It’s been stewing since Lardo said it earlier. _Good on him for doing something about it._ The problem is, now that he knows they must have done something about it last night, he doesn’t know where to start.

On the ice a buzzer blows to signal the end of the game. The Aces must have lost; Holster and Bitty look too happy for anything else to have happened. Holster kneels to let Bitty get on his shoulders, teetering a little on his way back up.

“Bro,” Ransom says. “Don’t fall over.” He has to shout to be heard over the roaring crowd around them. Holster responds quietly, his eyes determined but unsure at the same time. Ransom gestures at his ear. “Can’t hear you!”

“Tell you later!” Holster says back, smiling a little, and he starts wading out of their seats.

It takes a second for Ransom to follow. Lardo pokes him repeatedly in the back until he turns around, sticking his tongue out at her.

“What,” he says.

“Move your ass,” she says, sticking her tongue out back. The crowd jostles them.

He takes a step and stops so suddenly she runs into him. This time her poke has a lot more strength behind it.

_“Hey.”_

“Lards?” Ransom says. There’s a needy thing fluttering around in his chest. “Is this — me and him, is it a good idea?”

She raises her eyebrows, making the face she makes when she wants to say _are you fucking kidding you’re really asking me that_ but feels like she needs to be nice. It’s relieving to see.

“Yeah, I think it’s a good idea.” Lardo gives him another little shove and this time he keeps moving. “Just don’t get married when you tell him this time.”

Ransom says, “Think I can manage that,” and she rolls her eyes.

“That’s what we thought last time, too,” she says.

He pokes her in exaggerated retaliation. She puffs her cheeks out at him. They make faces at each other all the way out of the arena, progressively getting less and less serious each time.

____________

 

“We really gotta leave housekeeping a bomb ass tip,” Holster comments sleepily, flopping on the bed. Ransom nods and hopes he doesn’t look as nervous as he feels. “No sand, no glitter. No weird alcohol smell. They did good.”

Ransom toes off his shoes. He’s looking at the way Holster’s shorts rode up over his thighs when he says, “Yeah, they really did.”

This feels like — this feels like game time. Like the zamboni just finished resurfacing the ice and it’s time to go for it, to say what he needs to and get it out there. It’s somehow even more nerve-wracking than playing against Harvard in the Frozen Four; at least then he knows Holster has his back. Objectively he knows Holster maybe likes him too, which should help, but. It just feels like he has to get this absolutely perfect. Very little room for error.

Ransom counts to ten with his eyes closed. “Holtzy?”

Some rustling from the bed. When he opens his eyes, Holster’s facing him with arms around a pillow. He’d somehow missed Holster taking his shirt off. There’s so much skin and so many freckles and Ransom is really, really close to just saying _will you put your hands on me again?_ It’s a near thing.

“What’s up?”

How do you even do this? He wishes he had any clues other than grinding on him. It might not be a terrible last-ditch idea. He sits on the bed, one leg up, and Holster casually reaches out to hold onto his calf.

His heart is going 90 miles an hour.

He thinks Holster’s hand is shaking.

“Um,” Ransom says. “What were you saying, back at the game?”

Holster goes pink. “When?”

“When I couldn’t hear you,” Ransom says a little breathlessly. He slowly, carefully, places his hand on top of Holster’s. Holster almost involuntarily taps his thumb against Ransom’s leg. “You, eh. Said you’d tell me later.”

“It’s stupid,” Holster mumbles. His blush spreads to the small of his back, slips down even farther; Ransom wants to see how far it goes. “Just a stupid joke.”

Ransom slowly, carefully, runs his other hand through Holster’s hair, and Holster’s lips part as he looks up at him. “Tell me? Please.”

He sucks in his bottom lip.

Holster takes a shaky breath.

“I said,” he starts, “I’m not really planning on it.” He clarifies before Ransom can ask. “On falling over anyone else.”

Ransom whispers, “Oh.”

“I didn’t really — it’s okay, Rans, you don’t have to—” Holster breaks off, frustration written all over his face. Ransom takes his time outlining Holster’s face, tracing his fingers over his eyebrows, stroking down the bridge of his nose. He picks up some of the glitter and spreads it in Holster’s eyebrows. They stand out remarkably from the blond.

“I don’t have to what?”

Holster stops him a breath later with Ransom’s palm against his cheek. He sighs, covering Ransom’s hand with his own, and Ransom wants to kiss him. Wants to ease away that uncertainty on his face.

“You don’t have to do this,” Holster whispers. “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same. Earlier I didn’t know what to do, I just kind of flirted because who knows, right? At some point you must’ve felt the same. But you _are_ so far out of my league and I just — I don’t want you to feel obligated, or whatever, just because we got drunk off our asses and then got married.”

This — this stings a bit.

Ransom eases a hand into his pocket, saying, “I don’t,” and shows Holster the rings. Holster gapes at them. “I don’t feel obligated, I spent this whole day trying to figure out how we got to _this_ point—” He jostles the rings gently. “—when I’ve spent three years trying to tell you how gone I am over you.”

Holster doesn’t say anything right away. He presses his hand even more firmly against Ransom’s. Ransom sweeps his thumb across his cheek, feeling like he’s standing on the edge of something. Like he’s about to fall against Holster, if he’d let him.

He looks like he’d let him.

“Did you figure it out?” Holster says hoarsely. His hand on Ransom’s leg feels needy somehow.

Ransom whispers, “I think we just kinda,” and leans in, eyes closing.

Holster’s lips are soft, and giving, and — familiar, just like the hitch of his breath when Ransom tugs on his bottom lip with his teeth. They’ve done this before, they must have; he doesn’t remember but his body does, it’s so seamless a transition from sitting next to him to Holster on his back and Ransom on his lap that they must have done this last night. It feels like they’re doing something right, that he’s said what he was meant to say. Back on track after jumping off the night before.

He draws back enough to look at Holster in this light, to see how the cheap hotel lights play in the curves and angles of his face.

When Holster opens his eyes, Ransom says, “Yeah. I think something just like that.”

“We should’ve gotten drunk married earlier,” Holster murmurs.

Holster catches him mid laugh when they kiss again.

____________

 

Ransom wakes up to kisses dotted up and down his shoulder. He smiles into his pillow. “Fuck off, Holtzy, you’d better not be making that worse.”

A large smack of a kiss right to the middle of his hickey. “Honestly don’t think it could get any worse,” Holster says, sucking teasingly. Ransom nudges him with his elbow.

“Sounds like you’re giving yourself a challenge.”

His phone dings on the bedside table. Ransom lunges for it, careful not to dislodge the blankets too much and lose the warmth, and opens the mail notification. It says: **Congratulations! Your annulment was proc....**

Holster hums. Ransom feels it against his back. “Guess that’s done then.”

“Yeah, think we should have a real date first next time,” Ransom says, and he feels Holster’s smile against his shoulder. “If you want.”

Holster says, “You’re gonna have to work on your lines,” and Ransom slides out of bed, mock outraged. Holster stretches and follows him.

“Your pillow talk needs some work too,” he says. Holster laughs delightedly as he pulls on a pair of bright shorts. “What?”

He taps Ransom’s eyebrow and mouth. “You have a shit ton of glitter on your face.” Ransom rolls his eyes and buries his face into Holster’s neck, kissing the spot beneath his jaw, and Holster pulls him closer until he realizes what he’s trying to do. “Hey, no, keep your glitter to yourself.”

“What’s mine is yours?” Ransom says. He's so close to smiling his mouth hurts from holding it in. Holster brushes some of the flecks off his cheeks like Ransom’s something precious, like he’s a goddamn disco ball.

“Looks like it,” Holster says. Glitter shimmers at the corner of his jaw. He gives Ransom a shit eating grin, his thumbs in Ransom’s belt loops, and this time when they kiss Ransom doesn't bother hiding his smile. “Maybe that’s just what you get for waking up in Vegas.” 

________________________

**Author's Note:**

> I've legit been working on this for AGES, thanks for reading!! :)  
> Title and idea both come from the perennial classic "Waking Up in Vegas" by Katy Perry  
> I'm on tumblr, [come say hi! :)](http://ivecarvedawoodenheart.tumblr.com)


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